Echoes through embers
by sakuraxkisu
Summary: For Strings of a puppet. A beautiful mistake, some people call him—ethereal, beautiful, like narcissus—deadly, lethal, like venom. But to the rest of the world, he is known as Uchiha Itachi.


**Echoes through embers**  
_Did we take the time to be all those things we said we'd be?_

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_Dedicated to Strings of a puppet. (here's your gift-fic/birthday-fic/other-celebration-fic!)_

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A sudden spray of metallic, thick, liquid scarlet doesn't faze him in least bit.

(_they always said blood was thicker than water—_)

The pungent, foul stench of metallic iron lingers in the air, like an unwanted, thick invisible fog—he cannot see, even if he has the power to see the unseen—

(_this partially irks him—he always wants to see, wants to know—revels in the fact that eternal knowledge is endless, and regards it with abhorrence simultaneously_)

—the sky is dark, droplets of ash grey pelting down on him, like sharp needles, puncturing his skin with every passing moment. A dull stinging throb ripples through his arms, legs, face, but he makes not a sound—not a face.

A dull, jaded glimmer resides in the deep caverns of his blood-drenched irises, dark commas twirling and dancing within the shaded caverns of his eyes. Even as his katana drives through the body with ease, slicing the man's stomach open, another spray of blood splatters across the prominent rise of his long, slim nose and high, slender cheekbones—even as the pure, gleaming silver of the man's elbow juts out of his flesh, gleaming pearl protruding thick scarlet-splattered, _tainted_ flesh—even as the man's eyes, a gleaming rippling pond of teal and crushed aquamarine, fade to pale, translucent white, he feels not a thing.

No remorse—it's just another body, another soul.

(_1, 2, 3, 4—there goes another soul_)

No capitulation—he will never yield. He can never yield.

(_it hasn't been programmed into his mind to yield—it hasn't been added to the library of his mind, to yield_)

The body of the man drops to ground—a squelching, deafening crack echoes in the air, ricocheting off the thick invisible fog of metallic iron, both his kneecaps broken from the impact against the desolate, firm ground of the desert.

(_the sand, shimmering apricot and tangerine in the heated glare of the golden sun; soft and silky, appealing to the senses, is tainted by the thick, crimson liquid, seeping out of the man's cheaply bought, plain dusty clothes—the liquid slowly seeps into the thick layers of powdered gold, tainting the roots and deepest layers of the sand—he almost smiles at the wry analogy—almost_)

He stands, stilled and in silence, almost as though he is offering his condolences to the man and his family, his back as straight as the surface of a refined, newly built rosewood table—his body posture impeccable and impressive.

(_even after all those years he spent and continues to spend as a killer, he shall always be an aristocrat—an Uchiha—strong, formal and polite, standing tall and proud_)

Small, fine particles of grain and sand float in the air, in the cosmos, some grains land on the prominent rise of his cheekbones—droplets of perspiration gathering on his forehead, on his cheeks, on his arms. Splatters and sprinkles of thick scarlet taint the bronze, radiant sheen of his skin.

Dark, soot commas twirl within the bloodied cave of his calculating, piercing eyes—the commas dance with the blood, twirling and spinning, almost dizzily, in a trance—in rapture. Yet he is calm, poker-faced, gazes into the cosmos with not a single emotion, protruding the walls of protection built around the dark, clandestine secrets of the world.

Strands of smooth sable stick together in thick, tousled clumps, caked in thick scarlet. The thick, pungent fume of metallic iron enters his nostrils—the air is clammy, suffocating, as is the scent—yet he relishes in it, regards it a better scent than even the sweet, warm aroma of his own mother; a tainted man, once innocent and naïve, now disturbing.

(_blood on his cheeks, on his nose, in his hair—blood within the caverns of his dark, piercing eyes, in the form of a red weasel, warning to appear when he wishes—_)

He is tainted by the blood, a corrupt man—his heart is pure, frozen, tries to deny the blood, tries to deny any positive sentiment directed towards the damned ruby —his mind craves for it. And thoughts dominate feelings—hence why that _foolish little brother_ of his would never muster up the mental strength to defeat him.

(_a beautiful mistake, some people call him—ethereal, beautiful, like narcissus—deadly, lethal, like venom_)

But to the rest of the world—

(_he is known as Uchiha Itachi_)

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**EDIT!So. I'm happy again, now that FFN learned their mistake and let us use the hyphens.**

**I guess they've gained my respect back, LOL.**

**Review please :)**


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